


A Most Befuddling Thing

by flutteringazure



Category: Merlin (TV), Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: Gen, I'm not even sure what happened here, M/M, Merlin is a flirt, Peter curses a bit, Spoilers for Broken Homes, and Peter is not quite sure what to think of that, it's a meeting of magics, not more than usual, so is Nightingale, spoilers for merlin, this was supposed to be a drabble but these wizards just ran with it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-24
Updated: 2014-06-24
Packaged: 2018-02-06 01:55:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1840057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flutteringazure/pseuds/flutteringazure
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter has had a long day, and Nightingale should really learn a less destructive way of flirting with fellow backwards-ageing wizards.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Most Befuddling Thing

**Author's Note:**

> Massive beta love to [fakevermeer](http://archiveofourown.org/users/fakevermeer/pseuds/fakevermeer) and [Linpatootie](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Linpatootie/pseuds/Linpatootie) who supplied me with headcanons, grammar rules, pats on the back, inspiration for a follow up Thing and a shitload of commas!

I came home to the Folly, after a hard day on the job, to find Molly waiting for me in a state of unusual distress. Stephanopoulos had called me out to sniff out a crime scene, after she'd suspected foul play and the involvement of, and she'd made the air-quotes very apparent in the way she'd said it, "other means" and “my sort of people". However, after some poking around, the crime turned out to be a regrettable, but decidedly non-magical, murder-suicide case. I was tired, and I wanted to put my feet up. But here I was, trying to decipher Molly’s wordless means of communication.

After I'd had a fumble for my keys and finally found my way into the Folly, she nearly gave me the usual heart attack with her freaky ninja ways. Now, on any given day Molly is never one to shy away from trying to scare me out of my sturdy boots. But when she didn't immediately swoop off after my usual ' _oh gods why do you keep doing that?!_ ', and instead kept on staring at me with wide black eyes, her fingers clenched tightly into her apron and her lips a tight red line, I cottoned on that something was wrong. 

"Where is he?" 

I pushed past her, but she all but bowled me over as she made her way up to the first floor, towards the general library, checking every so often to see if I was still at her heels. I was following her closely with, after a moment of deliberation, my extendable baton firmly in the one hand and the other at the ready. I had a spell for a nice volley of skinny grenades and _impello_ lined up in case of trouble.

When we got there, the door was firmly closed and there wasn’t a single sound to be heard from within. I gestured for Molly to knock and stand aside and, to my surprise, she did just that. Whoever or whatever was in there, it had to be something either quite formidable or unusual to be able to stop Molly from barging in. After all, I knew what she could do when she put her mind to it, and she was generally pretty apt at hauling off anyone who posed a threat to Nightingale. She wasn’t nearly as protective when it came to me but, you know, we have history. It’s okay. Sort of.

A tense moment of silence followed her swift knock, before I could hear Nightingale's crisp voice say 'enter.' He sounded calm, but then I've seen Nightingale put on the ‘whatever ‘o'clock and all’s well’ spiel often enough to not find that very reassuring. I made a mental note to discuss a code with him for this kind of situation, because I assumed this would, eventually, happen again. Probably more often than we’d both like. 

I nudged the door open with my baton, standing cautiously aside, ready to jump into action in case anyone or anything should attack me. Suddenly I wished fiercely for Lesley and her taser to be right there with me, but then again, who knows who she'd use that taser on. Wryly, I pushed that thought aside and focused on the situation at hand.

There was no ominous creaking when I pushed the door open, not that I'd expected that in a house that had Molly in it, but still. A bit of proper sound effects would have been nice for the occasion. Peter Grant to the rescue. Gimme some Igor, for once, would it kill ya?

When opening the door failed to produce any stark raving mad wizards, chimaera or stray fireballs aimed at my cautious self, I carefully inched my way into the room. The sight that met my eyes was slightly unusual, to say the least. And also, I was only a bit sorry to say, somewhat anticlimactic. I shot a glance at Molly, who gave me a blank stare and closed the door behind me again. Well, nice to know she cared.

The atmosphere in the library was one of carefully balanced tension. Nightingale was leaning against one of the polished walnut cabinets that held the index cards. He looked much like I'd left him that morning after breakfast, wearing one of his terribly outdated shirts and a trim, pinstriped, charcoal waistcoat. But his messily pushed up sleeves were in stark contrast with the crisp crease in his trousers. His ever neatly parted hair and left arm and shoulder sported a damp splash of something that, for a moment, I feared to be blood, until I noticed it was actually the deep blue ink we kept in jars in one of the desk drawers. 

Nightingale was staring at a chair in front of him, in which a young white man was sitting calmly, his elbows resting on his knees, elegant fingers folded together over his mouth as if deep in thought. He gave no indication that he'd heard me come in. 

He was dressed in a pair of skinny denims, that showed more damage than the average pre-distressed trousers would come with. His blue t-shirt showed a faded picture of the Tardis and the legend ‘the Angels have the Phonebox’, and there was a frayed, red scarf wound loosely around his neck. Despite his somewhat unfortunate ears, he was rather attractive. His pale face was framed by a shock of short-cropped black hair and a set of cheekbones that would make the BBC casting department rub their grubby little hands together with devilish delight. Despite him sitting down, I could see he was tall and slender and would probably tower over Nightingale. That explained the leaning, then.

There was a roll of paper on the coffee table in front of him, and a well-worn satchel sat next to the chair. A leather jacket was lying crumpled on the floor between him and Nightingale.

“Peter,” Nightingale greeted me with a nod but without taking his eyes off the young man. “We have a visitor.”

I slowly lowered the baton because of the way he said it. With wonderment, rather than the clipped tones usually reserved for warnings and damage control.

The young man raised his eyes to me and the _vestigia_ hit me like a ton of bricks, or rather like someone had thrown a medieval tournament at my head, knights, horses, and all. It came on with a thunderclap and a wash of mead and petrichor. I felt scorching heat across my brow, and the sound of swords in battle rushed in. When it passed, I was left with the weight of weathered stone on my tongue and an afterthought of salt on my lips, as though I’d been crying. I exhaled roughly and shook myself to get rid of the sensation and the notion that, although the man looked like he was in his early twenties, his eyes had looked like they’d witnessed the dawn of time.

He blinked and unfolded himself from the chair and yeah, he did tower, a bit, but he also gave me a friendly smile and held out his hand for me to shake. I shot a glance at Nightingale who raised his eyebrows the slightest bit to show his compliance.

When the young man spoke, his voice startled me for a moment. It was warm and deeper than I’d expected, and tinged with a hint of dry humour.

“Merlin,” he told me. And almost as an afterthought he said, “Emrys. Merlin Emrys. Warlock, dragonlord.” His lips curled into a smile. “Oh it feels great to say that aloud. I don't get to do that much without people looking at me funny.”

That little speech confused me for a moment, but I pulled myself together, shook his hand and told him my name. His grip was firm. Something was nagging at me about his name, though, and it took me a moment before the penny dropped. When it did, Nightingale must have noticed, because he let out a huff of amused laughter.

“No-o-o but,” I protested. He couldn’t be serious, surely not. You see, I recognise an alias when I hear one. “Merlin? Are you kidding me? Well you certainly got lucky,” I shot at him. I could see Nightingale biting his lip in amusement and the young man raised an eyebrow.

“You don’t believe me?”

“Well it’s all a bit of a coincidence and a lot of big words, isn’t it. I do like the whole warlock, dragonlord thing though, sounds a lot flashier than practitioner. Not sure Newton would have liked it very much...”

The man, _Merlin_ , my brain supplied, wrinkled his nose in distaste. “Well Newton wasn’t exactly around in Camelot, and he wouldn’t have liked it very much if he had been. Standardisation of magic wouldn’t have gone down well with Uther, I don’t think.”

I stared at him and felt like I had been exceptionally slow up until that point. Nightingale grinned briefly, then schooled his features into professional blandness. “Uther,” I repeated incredulously. “Camelot… But that would make you...” _Old as balls_ , my brain supplied helpfully. I ignored it and tried again.  
“You’re _Merlin_ Merlin? The original?!"

Merlin held up his hands as if to apologise for the inconvenience and shrugged. “The very same I’m afraid.”

I glanced at Nightingale for some sort of reassurance on the matter, but he wasn’t much help either. Instead, he pushed himself away from the desk and made his way towards us. My eyes fixed momentarily on the patch of ink on his shirt, before darting up to his face. He thoughtfully rubbed at the stain and gave me a wan smile.

“Mister Emrys tells me he has grown steadily younger over the past decades.” Nightingale held up his hand as Merlin, _the_ Merlin, I still boggled at the notion, opened his mouth to say something and he actually closed it again. “Since the late sixties, apparently.”

Now _that_ revelation clicked with surprising speed. “Like you, sir,” I breathed. 

Nightingale nodded solemnly. “Just so,” he said. “But a bit more speedily, or so it seems.”

"I probably aged slower though," Merlin pointed out. 

Nightingale raised his brow at him but then conceded. "Yes, rather."

“So does it go on forever?” I blurted. Nightingale gave me a disapproving look and I know, I know that wasn't my most tactical moment, but I wanted to know more and I was sure Dr Walid would also be glad with any additional information on the subject. If we'd left it up to Nightingale he would just let things be, as he had since the sixties, but I for one was curious to know if I was going to end up having to deal with taking orders from a teenager. Because that would be weird.

“It seems to be a slow circle of continuous aging forwards and aging backwards for me, but I may be a special case,” Merlin mused.

"What do you mean?" I asked him. 

“Contrary to you, I do not just have the ability to use magic, I _am_ magic. Have been since I was born.” He shrugged and smiled. "Apparently it's like some sort of current."

"But are you the conductor or the source?" Nightingale pointed out. Merlin shrugged again, but remained quiet. 

The whole situation seemed pretty calm and contained to me, apart from a yet-to-be-explained incident in ink-slinging. That bothered me because Molly didn't just bully me into storming the library in full Keeper of the Queen's Peace mode for nothing, did she. I stepped up to Nightingale and lowered my voice. “So, why did Molly just ninja-creep up on me as if the Folly was about to go under?”

To my surprise, he twitched. Now, if I hadn’t known him as well as I do by now, I’m sure I would have missed it because the man can be utterly subtle about his tells. But I was looking at him, and it was there in the pinch of his eyebrows and a tightening of his mouth. It made me want to reach for my baton again. “Sir,” I urged.

He turned to Merlin, sighed, and gave a little wave of his hand. “I think you might drop the glamour now,” he said.

Merlin didn’t say a thing, but as I turned around to look at him I thought there was a flash of light in his eyes and the world around me tilted slightly. It tilted right into an absolute _mess_. Next to me Nightingale actively cringed, and I had to suppress the urge to do the same.

“Fuck.” I muttered.

The library was no longer the pristine, polished space, with rows upon rows of book-filled shelves. It’s dusty filing cabinets with their index cards all neatly stored and sorted. Instead it looked as though it had been hit by a very localised, very effective tornado.

The chair that Merlin had been sitting in was still standing upright, and so were the coffee table, reading desk and the one cabinet that Nightingale had been leaning against. Apart from that furniture had been overturned, books lay scattered around the room and there was a long, nasty burn on the floorboards that stretched from one end of the room to the other. Several of the filing cabinets looked as if they’d done a Beauty and the Beast and had spit out their filing cards over all and sundry. _Confetti_ , I thought wryly, _it’s a parade_. 

Molly was going to have an absolute fit.

“Pardon my French, but _what the actual fuck_. Sir.” I added the sir belatedly but I truly, honestly didn’t think he could blame me for that.

Nightingale gave me a sheepish look and Merlin grinned from ear to ear. 

“Just a casual misunderstanding,” he said with a wave of his hand. “Apparently your governor thought I was, er, someone else. I may have overreacted. A bit.”

As it turns out, even the most accomplished wizards can make the mistake of startling warlocks who are fully focussed on systematically sifting through an index card system that dated back to at least Victorian times. I bet even Nightingale hadn't expected that one of his polite coughs would cause said warlock to overreact and overcompensate in terms of defense. In a rather spectacular manner, if my surroundings were anything to go by.

“I thought it might be your friend Zach sneaking around.” Nightingale said matter-of-factly. “And then the filing cabinets blew up in my face.”

“At which point your boss turned into the smoothest warlock I've seen in a long time. Too bad he tried to use all that skill to murder me.” Merlin shot an appraising look at Nightingale who, to my surprise, looked slightly flustered. “He definitely knows how to defend his hearth and home, that one. Properly put me through my paces.” He grinned widely. “Haven't had that much fun in ages.”

I looked from him to Nightingale and back, and was suddenly both sad and relieved I hadn't been present for that particular confrontation. 

“So what were you looking for?”

“My king.” Merlin ran a hand through his hair. “Well, obviously not expecting to find the man himself in your library, per se, but some inkling of where I might start looking for him.”

“Your... king.” I repeated slowly. “King. Arthur?”

“Yup,” Merlin replied, obviously oblivious to the implications of such a statement. “Arthur Pendragon, Knight of the Round Table, King of Camelot and all-round clotpole. Can be very kingy when he puts his mind to it though.” 

I stared at him. “King Arthur, _the king Arthur_ , is ageing backwards too?”

“Oh no,” Merlin shrugged. “Nothing like that I'm afraid. It's just, this time the whole getting young again thing feels different. Feels as though here is more at work than the usual ebb and flow of magic. I'd rather keep an eye on the Lake, just in case something happens and I have to drag him out again.”

“Drag him out of what? _Lake Avalon_?” I had to suppress the urge to ask about Excalibur, but luckily Nightingale saved me from turning into a flailing fanboy.

“Are you looking for the location of the Lake? Or something else entirely?”

I composed myself while Merlin seemed to consider this.

“Not sure actually. The Lake itself is fickle, but I mainly need to know if there is any precedent for this kind of thing. Until recently I was quite unaware that the Folly was still in business, let alone that some of its inhabitant were experiencing the same kind of ageing backwards I’ve been going through for ages.”

Nightingale's brow shot up but he remained silent. Merlin shrugged apologetically. “I've been away, things were quiet when I returned. I figured the government finally decided to shut the place down. This was years ago, you see. When you live to my age, time gets a little...”

“Wibbly-wobbly,” I supplied. Merlin grinned at me while Nightingale just looked confused. I felt only slightly guilty.

“Anyway, I returned to London recently, noticed that the Folly hadn't been shut down but had, in fact, gained new apprentices. There's a change in the air. I needed to check if you had any documentation on this renewed expansion of magic, so I found my way in.”

“You know,” Nightingale said dryly, “you might have just asked.”

“Ah, but where would have been the fun in that? Anyway, turns out someone must have robbed your library of anything interesting, because these shelves are mostly filled with very mundane, very boring books on science and philosophy and whatnot. Do wizards no longer write things down?”

“They do, but they generally file the magical literature away in their magical libraries, not the mundane ones.” I noticed Nightingale sounded only slightly smug. 

Merlin looked intrigued. “Now that might be exactly the thing I am looking for,” he said.

“In that case, I can probably allow you entrance, provided you do not destroy that one too.”

Merlin shrugged. “Honest mistake?” He offered, with a disarming grin. “I promise to keep my magic to myself as long as I can browse your books.” He sounded only slightly flirty. Nightingale coughed pointedly. _Well, then._

I took another look around the destroyed library and tried to figure out a way to make myself scarce, but next to me Nightingale suddenly sighed wearily and rubbed a hand over his forehead. 

“I guess I'll have to go and plead with Molly to give us a hand with the clean-up.” He looked at me imploringly. “Peter, if you could get started on the index cards?” 

I rolled my eyes at him as soon as his back was turned, but did make my way to the cabinets. However, before either of us had a chance to get started on our respective tasks, Merlin cleared his throat pointedly. When I looked at him, he shrugged, lifted his hands and whispered something that, and I now realise the irony in this, sounded very much like Greek to me. His eyes flashed golden again.

Nightingale paused in the doorway and I could clearly sense him getting ready for defensive action in case Merlin tried anything funny. What I felt from Merlin however, was not the regular sense of forma lining up and the clear _signare_ of another wizard, but a slow gathering of power all around us. Gently cabinets and shelves righted themselves, cards fluttered back into their respective drawers, dust lifted from nooks and crannies and books sort of bobbed through the air to slot neatly side-by-side into the various bookshelves.

It felt ridiculous. No, it felt like being part of a weirdly lifelike Disney movie. I half expected a couple of bluebirds to fly in through the window to provide us with the appropriate soundtrack. Nightingale just stared, his head tilted thoughtfully, eyes following the motions of the books darting through the air. 

After the room had settled and Merlin dropped his hands to his sides, Nightingale turned to me. “Well,” he said dryly, “at least there can be no further doubt that magic has indeed returned to the world. Mister Emrys, if you’d be so kind as to follow me?”

I watched as Nightingale led Merlin out of the mundane library, and shook my head as the door closed gently behind them. _Fuck me_ , I thought. With passion.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is straight from Disney’s The Sword in the Stone. I have zero excuses for this and blame #teamtigertank.
> 
> ’Gimme some Igor, for once, would it kill ya’ is of course a terrible bastardised reference to both Doctor Who and Discworld.
> 
> ‘Confetti, it’s a parade’ references Supernatural or, to be precise, a blooper reel for one of the seasons. Don't ask me which season, I haven't the faintest... Also, I don't really think Peter watches SPN, but I do think he'd snigger a lot at the gag reels :3


End file.
